


A Shoulder to Lean On

by Leela, qafmaniac



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qafmaniac/pseuds/qafmaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the best thing that someone has to offer is a shoulder to lean on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shoulder to Lean On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HannaBec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaBec/gifts).



> **Artist** : @qafmaniac
> 
> **Beta** : @aislinntlc
> 
> **A/N** : For @HannaBec in exchange for her donation to keep @qafmaniac's pretty things up and running. Hope you like this, bb. ♥ ♥

Time zones don't always fuck Tommy up. Sometimes, if he's very lucky and Adam's heading in the right direction, they drop him into a deep, hard sleep for a few nights. Unfortunately Pittsburgh, hell the entire east coast of the United States, is in the wrong damn direction.

That's why he's up at ass o'clock, sitting on the bed instead of lying in it, picking silent chords on an unplugged Jag. He could jack in his headphones, but that would be too fucking loud for this time of night. Even the early morning party hardies have finished yelling shit at each other in the hallways and fallen into their beds... or someone else's.

Yawning, Tommy lays his guitar out next to him. He reaches for his phone and winces when he sees the time. It's way later than he thought: heading towards four a.m. 

"Sleep is for pussies," he mutters to himself as he leans back against the stacked up pillows. Sucks that he can't persuade himself that it's true, but he has to try. Otherwise he'd go insane. 

_More insane_ , says Adam's voice in his head.

Tommy rolls his eyes, mumbles, "Whatever, dude," and taps in this month's password to unlock his phone. 

Not able to focus on anything, he starts bouncing between Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Nothing really interesting on any of them, not even something lewd enough and crude enough to stir shit up when he retweets it.

He's half-asleep, half-poking at some stupid game app he just bought, when his phone buzzes with an incoming text. 

_U awake?_

Huffing a laugh, Tommy types, _Nope_. He doesn't even add a winky, because Adam should fucking know better by now.

_Didn't think so ;)_

After waiting a few seconds for Adam, Tommy types, _What's up..._ He even takes the time to add punctuation so Adam knows he's interested.

_Need a shoulder._

"Fuck." Tommy sits up and checks the time. Just after five. There's no way Adam's up because he wants to be. 

_Be up in 5. Going to bring my shit._ After a brief pause, he adds, _Not doing a walk of shame this am ;)_

Adam's only response is _Thx <3 _, which has Tommy surging up out of bed and reaching for his backpack. He shoves his clothes for the day into it, not bothering to change out of the t-shirt and sweatpants he didn't sleep in.

He has to run back twice, making it to the elevator only to discover that he'd forgotten his sunglasses and then the keycard that'll give him access to Adam's floor, but he's still knocking on the door to Adam's room with a minute to spare.

He uses their special knock, the ridiculous one that they invented during Glam Nation so that Adam would know it was a friend not a fan. They're the only ones in the band who know it now, because they never seem to get around to teaching it to Ashley, Brian, or Rick.

Adam breathes, "Thank you," like Tommy's grandma at mass, and before Tommy's done much more than take a few steps into the room, he finds himself wrapped in Adam's arms. The hug is tight and hard, pressing Tommy's Jag into his side just enough to make him worry about Adam and his guitar.

Still, he hugs back, because Adam's been running for so long that he feels like nothing but skin stretched too tightly over stress. 

Just as suddenly as he grabbed on to Tommy, Adam lets him go. "Coffee," he says, running a hand through his hair and waving the other one in the direction of the bedroom, where Tommy can see a breakfast tray set up on the dresser. "Or tea even. I couldn't remember if you were still drinking coffee."

"Coffee's good," Tommy says, pushing his hair out of his face and wishing he'd taken a few seconds to spray it with some shit. He leans his guitar against the wall and puts his backpack next to it, while Adam wanders into the bedroom and fills mugs for both of them. 

They sit quietly on the bed for a minute or two, side by side on top of the covers, backs against stacks of pillows, sipping coffee. It's just long enough for Tommy to feel tongue-tied. He's not as bad at talking as some of his fans seem to think, but he's not always the best at finding the right words. It's sometimes much easier just to reach out and touch someone.

With one last lingering sip, he puts his mug on the nightstand and says, "Got your shoulder right here."

The usual brightness of Adam's smile is dimmed lower than it's been in months, nowhere near reaching his eyes, and Tommy's worry ratchets up another notch. He pushes at Adam's shoulder. "C'mon then. I didn't drag my ass out of bed for a cup of coffee."

"It's a good cup of coffee." Adam slurps some down and hums appreciatively. 

"It's hotel coffee."

At Tommy's flat statement, something cracks in Adam's façade and he almost drops his mug as he fumbles it onto his nightstand next to his phone. Tommy is about to apologize but Adam drags himself over and curls into Tommy. His hip is resting against Tommy's thigh, and his forehead is pressed into Tommy's shoulder.

"What am I supposed to do?" Adam asks, his voice almost too low to be heard. 

Instead of answering, Tommy wraps one arm around Adam and begins to card his fingers through Adam's hair. Adam brings up his arms and clings to Tommy. 

They stay like that, silence broken only by the occasional noise from one of the rooms around them, until Adam says, "I wanna say fuck you to them. I'm so fucking better than that."

_RCA_ , Tommy sighs as his mind slots everything into place. He presses his cheek to the top of Adam's head, because he just can't bring himself to kiss Adam lately, not even the glancing brush of lips against a cheek that's been their trademark greeting — when not around fans.

"They fucked me over."

"They fucked your music over."

"One of the assholes admitted it." Adam rubs the side of his face against Tommy's t-shirt. "Just fucking came out and said that they couldn't get _enthusiastic_ ," he spits out the word, "about Trespassing."

Anger floods through Tommy, so protective and violent that he has to stop running his fingers through Adam's hair. He forces himself not to clench his hand into a fist. A muscle starts to tic in his jaw. "Fuckers."

"I gave into them, over that song and the singles, and all those wrong decisions, and they still didn't think it was worth their while. I offered them everything, and they might as well have thrown it back in my face."

They sink back into silence, because there isn't a damn thing Tommy can say in reply to that. What he wants to do is rage and yell and destroy things... people. Instead, he rests his cheek on Adam's hair, uncurls his free hand and uses it to stroke circles over Adam's back.

It doesn't feel like Adam's crying, but Tommy's shirt's getting damp and that's so not okay.

"They don't deserve you or your music, you know," he says, and not just because he wants to make Adam feel better.

"An album of covers is a fucking death knell. I might as well hang up a sign that says 'has been' and be done with it." Adam sighs. "The bitch of it is that it would probably sell."

"Don't." The low viciousness in Tommy's voice has Adam raising his head and looking at Tommy, eyes wide and lashes damp. "Don't compromise. Not for them."

Adam's smile is soft, and it creases lines around his eyes. "I'm not. I won't," he says, like a promise, an old-time vow that seems to vibrate down Tommy's spine. "I'm just... I don't know. There's been some interest, but no one's so much as hinted at a contract. What if..."

"There's no fucking what if," Tommy says, trying to cut right over Adam's doubts. "You're Adam Fucking Lambert, Lord High Ruler of the Glamberts, and..."

He stops at a snort of laughter and cants his head at Adam. "What? You totally are, and I'm like the number one Glambert."

"Is that what you are?"

The question catches in Tommy's throat. He wants to say yes and he wants to deny it, because he hasn't a clue what he is sometimes.

Adam leans forward, staring intently into Tommy's eyes in a way that makes something flutter to life in Tommy's chest. "Is that all you are?" Adam asks.

Then when Tommy doesn't reply, because he fucking can't find a single goddamn word worth saying, Adam continues with, "Do you ever wonder? Back in the beginning, when we decided that we didn't fit? That it could only be for fun?"

Surprise forces the truth out of Tommy, the syllables scraping out of his throat, his voice rough and unsteady. "Only on nights when I can't sleep."

"Oh," Adam says, sounding disappointed. His mouth forms a perfectly round circle, his lips lush and pink, the freckles standing out even through his moustache and beard. And then his expression fills with wonder and he says, "Oh," again, because he's totally fucking gotten it. 

The kiss, when it comes, is so gentle that it sends a shockwave through Tommy. His fingers tighten in Adam's shirt, and the noise that escapes him is somewhere between pornographic and humiliating. 

When Adam pulls back, it takes everything Tommy has not to chase after his mouth and another kiss. 

"Tell me no," Adam says, "and I'll get us more coffee."

Tommy's words have disappeared again, fucking traitors that they are, so he answers Adam with a kiss. Not so gentle, this time, with licks of his tongue, and nips with his teeth, and all the feelings that Tommy's utterly shit at talking about.

They end up shifting around, until they're lying on their sides, facing each other. One of Tommy's legs is between Adam's, and Adam's got a hand along one side of Tommy's jaw. His skin is warm, his lips are soft, his beard is prickly in a way that goes straight to Tommy's dick, and Tommy is completely fucked.

He can't do casual with Adam, not again. It almost killed him the first time to watch Adam slip away into love with someone else. Still he opens up to Adam, gives him everything he's asking for and that much more again, because he can't do anything else.

"Tell me no," Adam repeats, and there's something that looks like desperation in the lines around his eyes. "Because I won't be able to let you go again if you say yes."

Tommy reaches up and pulls Adam's hand away from his face. He laces their fingers together and brings their hands to his own mouth. Pressing a kiss to Adam's knuckle, he peers up at him through his bangs. 

"Yes," he says, "but only if you keep on standing up to the assholes and being yourself. I didn't fall in love with a chicken shit who doesn't know how to be himself."

When the words are out of his mouth, Tommy almost feels sick with the need to swallow them back down, shove them back into the deepest part of his soul. But Adam smiles, slow and bright and full of ridiculous amounts of tenderness, and Tommy can't help but smile back at him. 

"I love you, too," Adam says.

This time, Adam's kiss is a dark glittery promise that fucking _ruins_ Tommy, leaves him needing so much more. Rolling onto his back, he pulls Adam on top of him. He's fucking missed this more than he knew.

Tommy's hips buck up as Adam thrusts down. Their dicks rub against each other, rough and a little too dry, sparking a fire inside Tommy. The slow slide, a rock and twist of their hips, drags the soft material of their sweats between them, driving the flames higher and higher. 

Slipping his hands under Adam's shirt, Tommy skims his fingers up Adam's side, drags a calloused thumb over one of Adam's nipples. 

They kiss, biting at each other's lips, sucking on each other's tongues. Touch becomes everything to Tommy: the soft skin beneath his hands, the scratch and burn of stubble against his lips. The push of Adam's hand between his ass and the bed, and the press of Adam's fingers against his cleft. Not pushing in, just a soft beat against Tommy's hole that matches the rub and thrust of their dicks.

The fire becomes a blaze. Tommy arches up into Adam's dick, pushes back down against his fingers. He moans a long drawn out, "Fuck," as he comes, as Adam shudders against him and breathes out his name.

Adam rolls off him, gives him a slow and lazy smile, and Tommy lets himself be tugged over to curl into Adam's side. Damp, sticky, and stupid with exhaustion, the slow rise and fall of Adam's chest, the gentle thump of his heartbeat, lull Tommy into something that's not quite sleep. 

What feels like seconds later, the room is filled with the slow ring of a Tibetan singing bowl — and Tommy totally blames Adam for the fact that he even knows what one of those sounds like. 

Adam makes a noise of protest, but he reaches for his phone. It's ringing another tone when he finally gets a hand on it and turns it off, and they're both pretty much wide-awake.

"I'd say fuck it," Adam says, "but..."

"Soundcheck and interviews wait for no musician." Tommy flicks Adam's nose with his finger. "Well, unless you're the star."

"Somebody has to be." Adam sticks his tongue out at Tommy, and he tries to catch it with his lips. 

When they break apart, a corner of Adam's mouth lifts in a sly amusement that Tommy hasn't seen on him in what feels like years. "Wanna have fun? And make twitter explode?" 

"Duh." 

Catching the phone Adam tosses at him, Tommy watches, bemused, as Adam snuggles down under the covers. 

"Vine this shit," Adam says. "Time to stir up a little Glambert pride."

Tommy ends up laughing so hard that it takes a few tries to get something Adam can share with the world. 

Neither of them is ready to expose what they've just discovered to the occasional viciousness of the world in which they live. They will though, Tommy thinks, as he sips lukewarm coffee and listens to Adam sing in the shower. Because, this time, they know they each have a shoulder to lean on.


End file.
